


Tempestuous

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cave sex, Disappointment, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, IT IS A STORM OF EMOTION, Jon is king, Minor Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Past Relationship(s), Past SanSan, Trauma, and really bad at it, and won't let Sansa help him be great, body heat, promptfill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 03:10:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10732923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: Promptfill: Jon and Sansa are caught in a storn and need bodyheat to survive the night. The awkward situation eventually turns heated.





	Tempestuous

Sundown comes, but Jon has broken his promise. Sansa waits for him in the entrance hall, already dressed for the banquet. Nestor Royce’s court will be waiting. And he promised. _He promised._

Myranda is to wed in two days. She isn’t just any high-born lady, she’s Myranda Royce. One of the few true friends Sansa ever had during those terrible, dark times. And Jon swore he’d do his duty. He’d be on time for all the right events, that he’d show her friends every courtesy, that he would grant Myranda and her new husband his royal favor. That he wouldn’t do this, exactly this to her. That this wouldn’t be a repeat of the Festival of the Father, or the Victory of the Dawn anniversary banquet, or the Martell wedding.

Sansa Stark paces around the hall while Mya Stone sits next to a suit of armor.

“Careful not to scuff those pretty slippers,” her old friend says, with just a hint of humor. But she means it, too. They are pretty slippers, light, smoky satin with icy-blue roses at the toes. They matched her gown, with its fashionable square neckline, elbow-length sleeves trimmed with myrish lace and blue roses at the joint and the center of her collar. She was picturesque from head to toe. Not a hair out of place. Indeed, her auburn waves are in an elegant knot at the base of her skull, secured with a sapphire brooch shaped like a winter rose, the only jewelry she wore aside from her signet ring.

When they came to King’s Landing, Jon gave her the keys to the royal jewelry collection, to do with as she wished. But she could never stand to don Cersei Lannister’s old baubles, preferring to sell or remake them, and rarely wearing any herself. It was three years ago that Sansa Stark swore herself to spinsterhood once her royal cousin offered her the position of mistress of the royal court. And while she still took great pride in her appearance, she didn’t think many gems appropriate for an avowed Old Maiden.

But on the eve of the court’s departure for the king’s royal progress, he surprised her with the brooch. It wasn’t the sort of thing he often did, but he insisted she’d earned it after all the work she did for him. That he was sorry for the times he’d embarrassed or disappointed her, and that he was finally going to act less “Reluctant”.

That’s what the Seven Realms had come to call him, “The Reluctant King.” Not too long ago, he was “The Prince That Was Promised” and “The King of the Dawn.” But after a mere four years of taking off from court on the back of his dragon, verbally eviscerating courtiers for their failings, escaping into the city or countryside dressed as a peasant, secluding himself in his study, tearing apart knights in the practice yards, and snubbing events — often leaving his Court Mistress and Hand offering apologies—  the nickname had changed.

While he was prodigious and diligent when it came to what he called the “real” duties— accounts, petitions, defense planning, construction— he absolutely refused to actually court the people he needed, engage his vassals, or really even appear before his people much. The things he did attend to was, in fact, the work that the Lord Hand was meant for. While the king was supposed to, well, be a king, a guiding force, final word, and figure of strength, issuing orders from the Iron Throne, negotiating with the right people, acting the role model. But Jon preferred to receive and answer petitions in writing rather than hold a proper court and micro-manage the “practical” projects. He even managed to be off-putting and argumentative at council meetings.

His reticence had caused him to exhaust a total of three Lord Hands in four years. First Tyrion Lannister, then Wylis Manderly, then, of all people, Davos Seaworth, the man who had served Stannis Baratheon for twenty years. After the Onion Knight threw up his mutilated hands and retired, Sansa had scrambled. Even Jon realized at that point it was a problem.

She managed, at long last, to coax Willas Tyrell into considering the position. But there was a condition: there had to be a true, clear change, and the king would have to prove he was willing to reach out to his subjects at last.

The progress was actually Jon’s idea, as he’d seemed to finally register the severity of it all with Davos’s departure. And he asked Sansa to organize it, promising to do his part. To truly change.

And she’d believed him!

On the first few stops, he’d given her reason to, showing courtesies to the Rosbys, the Valeryons, the Crabbs, the Waynwoods.

This, this occasion though, is especially important, both politically and personally. Lord Nestor is the regent of the Vale, and more importantly, both he and his daughter Myranda were treasured friends. This is _Myranda’s_ wedding!

Jon promised. _He promised!_

She wants to weep, but she won’t. No one will see her weep. She’ll likely spend this evening like she has spent so many before: plastering a rigid smile to her face, offering apologies and every excuse. She’ll perform the toast she’d written, the one he was supposed to give in honor of the couple. She’ll be accommodating and appeasing, accepting every dance offer, dancing until her feet bled so that no more offense could be made. She’d done it before. She is a Stark. She is brave. And she is a _perfect_ lady.

And Myranda, her friend, who had spent years seeking a husband and suffering disappointment after disappointment, who had finally found just the right man, who was so excited to be one of the rare nobles to get the king himself to her wedding, would end up wondering what happened.

Sansa, after all, had promised _her._

 _No,_ she decides, _not again. Not again._

Sansa lifts her silken skirts and begins yanking off her slippers. She can already guess where her cousin might have run off to. And she knew this area. “Mya, I need a donkey. And your boots. And a cloak and lantern.”

“And riding clothes?” Mya asks, an eyebrow raised.

Sansa looks down at her lovely dress. No, she thinks again. This time, she was going to make him see it. Her gown will certainly be ruined, and Jon would see it when she found him, see what he’d brought her to. No more concealing the damage. Maybe if she’d shown him a few more tattered silks before now, they wouldn’t be in this situation. She would let the silk be ruined and _make him see._

Hells, she’d even keep the brooch in her hair. To remind him of the vow he’d broken. _In fact…_

She starts putting the slippers back on. “Forget the boots, Mya. Just the cloak and the lantern and the donkey. I’ll wear the slippers.”

Mya’s eyes widen. “Are you mad? Your feet! You’ll have to be carried back!”

“Good,” she replies stubbornly. Let Jon carry her. She’s been carrying him for years. _Let him see._ She hopes she loses a toe. She hopes her feet end up looking like Ser Davos’s hand. _Let him see._

“Sansa, it’s going to rain and—”

“NOW, STONE!” She’s never raised her voice with Mya before. And that just makes her angrier at Jon. _Look what he made her do!_

Her friend reluctantly does as asked. And Sansa finds herself on Mya’s best donkey, a scratchy woolen cloak over her costly grey silk, slippered feet in the stirrups, riding past the walls of the castle, heading up the Giant’s Lance.

She hadn’t let him take the dragons this time. Too great a temptation. So he will not have made it to the top. He’ll have taken his charger up the mountain paths and probably stopped at one of the landing cliffs to brood.

He’s not at the first, or the second. Because, as always, he has to make things as difficult as possible. And oh, how she _hates_ him!

 _I’m going to leave,_ she tells herself as she rides Mychel, the donkey, further up, _I’m done. Davos left. I will too. I will go to Sweetriver. Or maybe I will find a husband after all. Someone to take care of me, for a change. I’m leaving. I am._

She’s not.

Sansa knows that, deep down. She’ll never abandon Jon. She was the one who found him, after Daenerys died and he’d taken off in a blind rage after the Night’s King. He and Drogon were lost for days, and everyone was certain they’d perished too. But Bran begged her to go. Arya was injured. It had to be her. So she took some men and searched, and she found him, huddled over the monstrous king’s icy corpse.

Sansa saw him. Sansa saw Jon’s face.

And she’d said his name. And he looked up, and he ran to her, and he embraced her. And when they’d brought him back and patched him up, he spoke to her. He said he wanted to protect her.

She will not leave him, ever.

How could she? WInterfell is Bran’s. It’ll then go to Rickon and Rickon’s children. Arya has… She is a wanderer, an explorer, and she has the pack of wolves, Nymeria’s pack. Sansa may not understand it, but she knows it’s worth it. Sansa… The Stark treasury was depleted at the end of the war, leaving her almost no dowry. She’d refused to return to Tyrion. But worse was her soiled honor. Everyone knew what Petyr did.

And what she’d done with Sandor.

She was supposed to marry him when the war was over, so she didn’t care. She wanted to feel good, to live freely, just a little. They could die at any moment. But she wanted to wed him in the spring. He wanted to marry her in the spring. A proper, beautiful little wedding when flowers would bloom and it would be warm again. Ser Gregor was dead, and the Clegane lands and keep belonged to Sandor by right. It was not the grandest match, especially for not a woman of her birth. The Cleganes only went back a few generations. His great-grandfather was a kennelmaster.

Sansa hadn’t cared. It was what she’d wanted. She could just go away with him, be Lady Clegane. Not the Key to the North, no, not the new Catelyn Tully, not any of that. Just the cherished wife of a man who loved her heart. Who didn’t care what her name was. And she’d never, ever have to play that awful game again.

And then just like that, he was gone. Lost to the Others like so many men. They’d had to burn his body, of course. And he’d so feared fire. It was the ice that killed him, though.

And everyone knew that she’d given herself to him. Tyrion himself had rubbed her face in that. She was soiled. She was fallen.

Even Bran couldn’t quite hide the disappointment in his eyes when he heard. At first, he’d angrily defended her honor, furiously banishing anyone who said such a thing. Because Sansa, his perfect lady sister, would never, _ever…_ And then she herself had to admit the truth to him. The pain and disappointment in her brother’s eyes…

The whole world sighed. _What a shame. All that potential._ That perfect little lady, the ideal princess bride, now the soiled goods of a dead, disfigured dog.

And Jon asked her to come to King’s Landing with him, to run his court and his household. To help him rule. “You’ll want for nothing,” he told her, “Forget what they say. They know nothing. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Come to court with me. You know that world, you know me, and you have everything I need. Help me be a king. There’s no one else. You’ll never have to marry, if you don’t want. You’ll never have to hide. You’ll be the Lady you were meant to be. And if you decide you want to stop, I’ll grant you a castle and lands of your own and you can go. Just please come with me. Help me be king.”

And she did. She’s been with him ever since. Seven Hells, even when he granted her that castle and lands– she’s Lady of the Sweetriver now— a year into his reign, she didn’t leave. She could. She _can._

But she _won’t._

Sansa will be parted from her toes before she leaves him. And she isn’t even sure _why._ She has never forgotten what King’s Landing did to her father and her. She’s never forgiven the courtiers who sniggered while Joffrey had her stripped and beaten. And even Davos — _Davos Seaworth_ – has given up.

But she is going to make him Jon answer for this. Despite the nicknames that followed her after Sandor, she’s no one’s bitch.

She makes it to the foresty, third landing, perhaps the largest expanse of flat land on the mountain. The plateau has a small forest, caves, and a west-facing cliff. The Royces used to take her and Sweetrobin hawking here.

Mya was right, of course. It’s raining. And her feet are in agony.

And, sure enough, it’s here that she finds the king, under a heavy canopy of evergreens so thick the rain doesn’t fall so heavy, his head resting against Ghost’s side, asleep.

Sansa dismounts and crumbles to the ground, her feet in worse shape than she realized.

_He’s bloody sleeping!_

Sansa sees red.

“GHOST! TO ME!” She cries.

The white wolf springs to his feet and obeys, leaving Jon to bang his head against the tree roots, jolting him awake. He makes such a stupid noise, too.

Ghost has the audacity to wag his tail, but stops when Sansa scowls at him.

“Don’t look at me that way. I’m angry with you as well. How did you let this happen? We were supposed to be working together on this!” She hisses. The direwolf lowers his head to the ground submissively.

“Seven Hells! Oh–” He looks around, noting the distinct lack of natural light around them. “Wh-Sansa?! Is that you?!”

Sansa yanks the lantern from the saddlehook and holds it near her face. “Yes, you stupid shit!”

It’s only now she realizes just how cold and tired she is. Her cloak and gown are wet, and the rain is coming down harder and harder. The wind is blowing harder.

Then there’s an ominous rumbling in the distance. _Perfect._

“Shit!” Jon scrambles to his feet and rushes over. “Oh, Gods, it’s so late. Sansa, _I swear, I-_ ”

“SHUT UP!” She cries, finally letting the tears fall. The rain is finally heavy enough to penetrate the trees. “I don’t care!”

She sobs and looks down at her sodden skirts. It was such a lovely gown. It’s ruined now. She trembles.

In her rush, she’d taken the first cloak offered to her, and it’s woefully inefficient.

“Oh, Gods,” he says again, looking at the sky, “What are you even— We have to find shelter. Come on.”

“I can’t _stand!_ ” She says, sticking out one of her pulsing, swollen, slippered feet. The blue silk rose has been ripped off the toe, probably trampled into the mud somewhere on the path up. “Where is your horse?”

Thunder hits again, this time so loud that her question gets answered: Jon’s clearly petrified charger bursts through the trees, running wild, right past them, in turn spooking Mychel. And just like that, both their steeds are gone.

Jon continues to swear. “Sansa, what were you thinking of?”

“ _You! Always you!_ ” She cries furiously, “And how this time, I wasn’t going to let you off easy! _Look at what you’ve done!_ ”

He pulls back, clearly stung. But those would-be-ranger instincts kick in. “Sansa, we need to find shelter—”

“There’s a good cave a quarter mile that way,” she says, pointing. “Carry me!”

He doesn’t hesitate to scoop her up. But he does seem confused. “How do you know—?”

“I used to go hunting here often,” she responds, “And I went up and down this mountain a half dozen times. Mya is one of my best friends. This isn’t the first time I’ve been caught in a storm on this mountain.”

“Right.” He keeps moving. “Seven Hells, Sansa, what are you wearing?”

“The gown for Myranda’s rehearsal banquet,” she snaps, “It’s ruined.”

“Obviously.”

“I wanted you to see, you stupid, thoughtless, selfish shit!” She barks. “I wanted you to see what you’ve been doing for the last four years!”

His face crumbles. “Sansa, I promise, I didn’t mean to do this. I was just getting some air. I fell asleep. I didn’t think I’d be out for so long. It was an accident.”

“Accident or not, the result is the same! You could have taken a nap back at the castle. But oh no, not our tortured, brooding, reluctant king!” She shouts over the wind and thunder, “You had to ride up the mountain and nap on the ground! All alone! Where no one could wake you up! And you still ran off, like always! _You promised me, Jon!_ You promised me! And I promised Myranda the king would be there! My best friend! _How could you?!_ ”

The cave is exactly where she said. It’s a deep hole in the wall, large enough for a hunting party of a dozen to comfortably wait out a storm. Jon sets her down against a wall with a groan before plopping down in front of her and hanging his head.

“ _I swear, Sansa, this time,_ I was sure I’d do it. I meant my promise. It was a mistake.”

Sansa hugs her shoulders, teeth chattering. The storm rages on, louder, crueler, colder.

Jon looks at her reluctantly. “I’m so sorry, Sansa, but I need to run out there and try to find any dry wood that is left. We need to build a fire. Ghost will stay with you.”

“Whatever,” she snaps, as if she isn’t already worrying about him getting hurt.

He comes back minutes later, with a paltry offering of sticks. Sansa has removed her ruined slippers and ruined gown and curled up against the direwolf for heat. She doesn’t look at the king, instead burying her face in white fur as he begins building a small fire.

She only turns back when it’s crackling and the heat calls to her.

The thing about Jon is that he’s always given her space. He’s always let her do things at her pace. So he doesn’t keep begging for forgiveness, trying to explain. He just sits there, watching her, looking utterly ashamed.

After a while, he weakly asks to see her feet.

She’s enjoyed too many rubs from the king to refuse him. And she’s not stupid. She needed the circulation back. So she drops them in his lap and groans when he begins kneading the joints.

“Sansa, I think we may be stuck here for a while. Longer than this fire will last,” he tells her.

She doesn’t even care anymore. They’ve both suffered worse.

“They’ll send people after us after the storm hits. Poor Myranda. This will ruin her wedding.”

“This storm would ruin any wedding,” Jon says grimly.

“It’s still your fault. They could have just locked down and waited a day without having to panic if you hadn’t—”

“-I know. I’m an idiot. And I broke my word. And failed as a man and a king.”

“Yes.”

“But you still came for me.”

She wants to kick him in the stomach for that. Yes, she did. Sure, she didn’t want to face the disappointed court alone. Sure, it was partly out of anger and determination to confront him. But she came for him. And she always will. They both know it.

“But you won’t even attend a banquet for me,” she accuses him. She’d come here intending to break his heart, but it’s hers that feels like it’s being ripped apart.

“I wanted to, Sansa. And I _will._ I give you my word.”

With trembling fingers, she reaches behind her head, yanks out the rose brooch he gave her the last time he said this, and throws it at him. “Words are wind.”

There’s more silence for a while as the fire begins to die. He feeds it for as long as possible, but eventually, they’re left with no other option but to huddle together. His arms close around her. She stares at the mouth of the cave, of the storm raging just a few yards away.

“Why did you even want me to come to court with you?” She asks, “Was it just pity for your poor, ruined sister this whole time?”

He tenses up. “ _No._ I promise you that.”

“Then why?” Sansa has no idea what the answer could be.

“Because I was afraid. And you saved me,” he whispers, “And because I needed you. I _still_ need you.”

“Because I always come after you.”

“Not just that,” he murmurs, “I meant everything I said then.”

“ _Then why don’t you ever listen to me?!_ ” She demands, “ _Why do you keep doing this?!_ ”

“Because I don’t deserve what you have to offer, and I know it. And other times…”

“Other times what?” She replies.

“I’ll be ready to show up to one of the banquets or festivals, or sometimes even just a court session, but then I will round the corner, and see you.”

_“So?”_

“And you’re too beautiful for me not to betray myself.”

There’s a very, very long silence again. Her mind races. Her heart pounds. She takes quick, shallow breaths. She feels like something is happening, something is starting to fix itself, fall into place, but she’s afraid to see what it is.

“Explain,” she finally orders him.

“I’ll see you, so perfect, so strong, so lovely. And I know that if I spend too much time with you, it’ll finally come out. And you’ll know.”

“Know what?!” She feels like she’s about to fall apart. _Just say it, please._

“How I’ve felt about you ever since that day you found me Beyond the Wall. The way a brother should never feel about his sister. Especially a sister who needed someone to protect her, not want her, as badly as you did.”

Her heart seems to stop beating. Time seems to slow. Even the storm outside seems to stop raging so hard.

There it is, then.

“Why now?” She asks, pleading for the answer now rather than demanding it.

“Because I’ve lost you for good now,” he says, “This was the last straw. So what’s even the point anymore?”

Slowly, Sansa turns within the conclave of his arms and faces him. “You’re such an idiot,” she whispers, “I’m not leaving you. I’m never leaving you.”

His breath catches. “R-really?”

“Never.”

“Sansa, even Davos left me. Davos wouldn’t even leave Stannis. And look at you! Look at what I’ve driven you to!”

“You wouldn’t have driven me to this if I wasn’t in love with you.”

There it is again. The reason why she hasn’t left.

His mouth falls open. “But… But The Hound…”

“Sandor,” she corrects him, “He’s gone. And I miss him every day, Jon. I miss him so much. And I love him. I still do. But I’m still alive. I’m still here. My heart still beats. And clearly, so does yours, despite Daenerys. Despite Ygritte.”

“The H-Sandor could give you a safe, quiet life. I just drew you back to the capital.”

“I wouldn’t have gone back for anyone else. I couldn’t feel safe there with anyone else.”

“I couldn’t even protect Daenerys.”

Sansa closes her eyes. “No, you couldn’t. And I couldn’t protect Sandor. They’re gone. And we’re still here.”

A current runs through them. Like lightning that doesn’t end.

Jon swallows. “This time, I will not fail you.”

“I know,” she whispers, “ _I won’t let you.”_

They seem to melt together. They’re one before either of them really seem to realize it. It’s all friction, all breath, all the life they still had, all the hope they still cling to as tightly as they cling to one another. It’s them in the middle of this storm. They take their broken selves and build something new.

To their last days, Sandor would call her little bird, but she demands Jon say her name, again and again. “Sansa. Sansa. Sansa.”

She runs her fingers round his scars, looks into his eyes, and tells him how beautiful he is. She used to tell Sandor that he was her true knight. Jon is not her knight. He’s just _hers_.

They exit the cave the next morning to a clear, sunny sky. Her feet are swollen, and he carries her. They’re eventually found by Mya and her donkeys.

The Reluctant King becomes the _contrite_ king when they get back to the Gates of the Moon. He begs the Royces’ forgiveness for the trouble, cheers heartily at the ceremony, gives a wonderful toast to the new couple, and offers them a lofty place at court, so lofty that the groom ends up spilling Dornish Red down his doublet. The king goes out of his way to delight every other person they stay with. When they make it to Highgarden, a stunned Willas Tyrell eagerly agrees to serve as Hand. Jon’s first task for the man is to draw up a marriage contract.

People later whisper that their new queen is a witch who cast a spell on the king. The High Septon addresses it exactly once, stating that if true, that it is one case of Magic that the Seven would bless.

There are many more storms throughout their lives, and they keep each other close and warm during them all.


End file.
